


Home Truths

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: #HimboAppreciationSociety, #OwlBoy, ... being DISCOVERED, Accidental Cuddling, Adorable Gendrya, All the FEEEELINGS, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Boners, Awkward Conversations, Bars and Pubs, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Brat/Thran/Thean/Breon?, Breakfast, Chef!Ned, Comedy, Coming Out, Concerned!Ned, Confused!Ned, Drinking, Drunk!Ned, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Jon Snow's Magic Tongue, London, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Kink, Morning After, Naked!Ned, PDA, POV Multiple, Pa-pa-pizza, Revelations & Realisations, Romance, Secret Relationships, Sex, Slapstick, Swearing, ❤
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “Theon,” blurts Sansa. “Theonjust tried to kiss me.”Whoop of laughter Arya doesn’t bite back quick enough. “Hewhat?!”“Tried to kiss me.” Eyebrows like see-saws swinging up to her hairline as she grimaces. “His mouth. Near my mouth.” Closes her eyes. “Oh, fuckme.”Smoky chuckle behind them. “Is that an invitation?”“Notnow, Jon,” snaps Arya. “For fuck’s sake.”Family night at the Starks’ local pub. House red. London Pride on tap. Texting (secretly) beneath the tabletop. Kisses in the nook behind the doorway. A runaway kraken and a pack of wolves heading out for a night on the town. Revelations. Realisations. It’ll be fun! Promise.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Bran Stark
Comments: 150
Kudos: 302





	1. Family Night

**Author's Note:**

> Having a _litttttttle_ bit of the ole writer’s block at the moment. This sprung up as an idea tonight… and I just had so much fun writing it! A little different for me — but I hope you enjoy! 🍻😍

**Sansa**

Her cheeks are burning. Fucking _burning_. Puts the back of her hand to one; fire-bruise blooming beneath her skin. Lifts her other hand. Palms pressed together, tips of her fingers against her lips, thumbs propping up her chin. Takes a breath. Several. Then makes her hands into fists, gives them a little _come-on-Sans_ shake and slips back in through the double-doors.

Fingers unfurling as she crosses the sticky floorboards. Picture of perfect serenity, she’s sure of it. Dim-lit pub (hopefully) disguising the bloom of colour in her cheeks. Sweet, little smile betraying nothing. _Nothing_. Slides back into her chair at the Stark family booth.

Lays her palms flat to the tabletop. Drums her nails very lightly against wood sticky as the floorboards. Smiles. Sweetly. Dad, Robb, Bran, Gendry, Jon — not one of them bats an eyelash at her. But Arya is on her at once.

“What the _fuck_ just happened?”

“What do you mean?”

Flinty eyes rolling to the heavens. “Give over. Tell me. Now.”

“Nothing happened, Arya.”

“Then why the fuck do you look like _that_?”

“Like _what_?”

Quick little slap to her dancing knuckles; drumming fingertips stuttering silent. Flinches, scowls at Arya even though the slap didn’t sting. They stare at each other: sun and moon, light of both burning in their eyes. Then Sansa puts her head in her hands, gives a sound that might be a wail.

“Oh God,” she says. “Oh _God_.”

*

**Arya**

This is going to be juicy. Her sister is something of an aspiring thespian in any and all emotional displays, sure — but never like _this_.

“What?” Struggles to keep from clapping her hands in glee. “Sansa, _what_?”

Another wail. Sapphires peeking out from between porcelain fingers. Arya has to fight her growl of impatience; reaches out for Sansa’s wrists. Gives her a little shake. Looks like one of Mum’s old china dolls: lick of red paint blooming in each cheek. _Tell me_. Flexes her fingers on Sansa’s slim little wrists, widens her eyes to emphasise her wordless demand.

“Now,” says Arya.

“Theon,” blurts Sansa. “ _Theon_ just tried to kiss me.” 

Whoop of laughter she doesn’t bite back quick enough. “He _what_?!”

“Tried to kiss me.” Eyebrows like see-saws swinging up to her hairline as she grimaces. “His mouth. Near my mouth.” Closes her eyes. “Oh, fuck _me_.”

Smoky chuckle behind them. “Is that an invitation?”

“Not _now_ , Jon,” snaps Arya. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry.” He _isn’t_ — not one bit; scowls at him. He smiles innocently, pats his back-pocket for his wallet. “I’m getting another round. Same again, Arya?” Eyes sliding to the red-haired heap of wails on the table. “Sans?” 

“Wine,” comes her muffled plea. “Lots and lots of wine.”

Soon as Jon has ambled off toward the bar, Arya rounds on Sansa. Leans down to her level on the tabletop, cheek resting on her forearm as she squints through fire-streak strands till she finds a flash of blue in the dark.

“What did he _do_?”

“He was — oh _God_ — he was thanking me for that heads-up I gave him. For the…” Sansa makes an airy gesture; sideways frown. “For _the_ — ”

Arya leaps ahead impatiently. “For the marketing job.”

“Yes,” says Sansa. “ _Yes_. For the marketing job.” They shuffle a little closer from their crooked perch on the table. “So he was thanking me. Went to hug me. We’re friends, right? We hug all the time.” Thread of panic in her voice even now. “But _this_ time he leaned in and — and — _Arya_. I can’t even — ”

“Oh, Theon you fucking _idiot_.” Arya nips her lip to stem the chuckle she’s desperate to release. “You stupid, lovely, _stupid_ fucking idiot.”

“I _know_.”

Comes out as a wail. Proper leading-lady wail, too. Arya is almost impressed. Impressed at herself, too, as she swiftly turns her chortle of laughter into a sort of soothing coo instead.

*

**Jon**

Barmaid takes pity on him, gives him a tray to balance his more-than-a-handful of drinks. Drops her a little wink in thanks. Realises by her expression that Sansa might be fucking right. _Can’t wink to save your life_. Barmaid is frowning at him a little bit now. _You just blink like a grumpy owl_. Turns on his heel, ducks his chin down into his chest.

Dodges reeling drunks and the pub dog and a few thousand stray handbags and coats slipping off hooks on his way back to the booth. Sets the tray down, wallet clamped between his teeth. Spits it out into his hand, flutters his fingers in a little flourish as he clinks down a couple of glasses.

“Wine,” he announces. “Lots and lots of wine.”

Sansa looks up from her crossed arms on the tabletop, tips back her head, shoulders shaking in a mock-grimace. “Just pour the whole fucking bottle in.”

“Tempting.” Looks from her wide-open mouth to her sister and back again. “What’s up?”

Arya widens her flinty eyes at him, wiggles a brow. “Theon tried to kiss her.”

Gasp from the tabletop pile that is Sansa. “Arya!”

“He _what_?!”

“That’s what I said.”

Jon stares at Sansa. Thinks of what he should say. Call Theon a fucking idiot? Tell her that he was probably just a little drunk? Fess up that him and Robb and Gendry and Theon have been in the pub all afternoon? Opens his mouth.

“I don’t know what to — did you kiss him back?”

Where the fuck did _that_ come from? Two sets of eyes burning into his face now: flint and sapphire, chipping away the nonchalant air he has (definitely _not_ ) managed to impart into his voice. He ducks away, hefts up the bottle of wine, unscrews the lid. Fills their glasses. Wants to drown in the ink he’s pouring.

Looks back up as he pushes Sansa’s glass toward her. She meets his eyes. Shakes her head. Once. He blinks at her like a (grumpy) owl — tries to ignore the huge wave of relief washing up from his belly. Tries to school any and all trace of it from showing on his face. Quickly realises he is failing. Blinks a bit faster instead, lets the grumpy owl take flight.

*

**Robb**

Dad utters one of his weird little old-timey prayers — _old gods of the fucking forest and clouds a-bloody-bove_ — beneath his breath as Robb checks his phone for the umpteenth time this evening.

“Sorry,” says Robb. “Sorry!” Puts his phone away, holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “ _No_ you’re not boring me and _yes_ it’s very rude of me.” Gestures toward the double-doors of the pub. “I was just checking where Theon has got to, that’s all.”

Bran rolls his eyes. “You were checking your phone before Theon even left.”

“All right, Bran the All-seeing.” Rolls his eyes right back. “It’s work stuff.”

“It’s a _family_ night,” says Dad. “No work stuff on a family night. It’s my one and only rule. You know that.” Spreads his weather-worn hands. “You can be the lone wolf all you like during the week, Robb Stark — but on a _family_ night you are part of the pack — and work stuff is thrown to the winds.”

Robb claps his palms together. “Okay! Okay!”

But Dad is fully-into his wolf metaphor. Expands on it as he always does when he’s had a pint or two. White winds blowing — why the fuck they’re _white_ Robb will never know —and lone wolves dying. Same old shit. They all nod indulgently. Touch their palms to their chests as Dad wraps up his little speech. He sees right through their sarcasm — always does — gives a gruff shout demanding to know _where the bloody beers are_.

Gendry joins the shout. Jon holds up a middle-finger from the other end of the table. Robb laughs, starts shouting, too. Phone vibrates in his pocket again. Tries to ignore the overwhelming need to hook it out and devour whatever words are waiting for him. Fancies he can almost _hear_ the voice sounding them out: soft as rose-petals, twice as sweet. Vibrates again. Shifts on his seat, fights it for a moment — then snatches up his phone. 

“Theon again?” asks Bran sarcastically.

“Yes,” says Robb through gritted-teeth disappointment. “It is actually.”

No time to read the message-icon; phone is ringing now. Stares at the photo of his best friend flashing up on the screen. Goes to slide his thumb across. But then his phone is swiftly snatched out of his palm. Looks up, protesting like a teenager. Dad scowls at him, presses the lock-button down with a flourish.

“It is a _family_ night, Robb Stark.”

*

**Sansa**

Her cheeks are still burning. Mainly from the wine now. She thinks they’ve had two bottles between them. Her and Arya, that is. Two bottles of house red. Between them. But she’s not really sure if two bottles would be enough to explain why it’s gone from tasting like piss-vinegar to the finest vintage ever to grace this side of the city.

Maybe it’s three bottles.

Or four.

Either way, she is drunk enough to agree to going to another bar with Arya and their men-folk. Dad taps out, ambles off collaring a protesting Bran as he goes. The rest of them duck out into the icy night a little while later. Breathe in the salt-and-smoke air, reel a bit on their feet as they sway down the street.

She closes her eyes as they leave the black-painted pub behind, the little nook behind the awning where Theon — _where Theon_ —

“Oh _God_.”

Hand on her elbow to steady her. Gendry the Gent. Her little sister’s boyfriend of too many years to count now. High school sweethearts and it’d make her just _sick_ if they weren’t so fucking adorable. She pats his hand in thanks and keeps strutting along the street, Arya hanging onto her other arm.

“Have you thought — ”

“ _Yes_ , Arya,” whines Sansa. “I haven’t _stopped_ thinking about it.” She tips her face up to the sky, pretends to sob, feels scarily close to it becoming a reality. “I’ve sent an SOS and an emergency-response flare to Margaery but she’s ghosting me — the _bitch_.”

Wishes she was here. Margaery would know what to do. Her grown-up friend. Her sophisticated friend. Her straight-laced friend. Her Little-Miss-Know-it-All-but-in-a-good-way- _fucking_ - _text_ - _back_ - _now_ - _please_ friend. 

“I’m sure she’s just busy,” says Robb from up ahead. “Dad didn’t give me back my phone or else I’d know — ”

“Dad _took_ your phone?” Arya bursts out laughing. “Are you _twelve_?”

“Know what?” asks Sansa. “You’d know _what_ if you had your phone?”

“I don’t know,” jibbers Robb in a rush. “I don’t even know what I don’t know.” Walks on, arms held up as if she’s got a gun trained on his back. “I know nothing.”

“Hey!” shouts Jon. “That’s _my_ line.”

*

**Bran**

“We best leave a key out,” rumbles Dad. “I could happily go another ten years without being woken up by them chucking stones at the windows.” Raises a brow. “Or a bloody _brick_ if it’s Gendry picking the pebbles.” 

Laughs through his nose, lets Dad rumble on. They’re halfway home. Bran is happy. Few pints of Pride swilling round his belly. Knowledge of an imminent explosion at the forefront of his mind. Wonders how it’ll go down: Theon and Sansa, Robb and Margaery.

Friends. _Family_ friends. Milling about right under one another’s noses. Texting beneath the tabletop. Kisses in the nook just outside the pub doorway. Amazing what people can find out if they only look a little deeper into the threads of life spinning out all around them. Mm, and sometimes people don’t even need to _see_ something to know what it means. Bran’s good at that. Has always been good at that.

That’s how he knows that really the imminent explosion is just a surface one. Something minor hiding the _real_ fucking course-collision. Robb and Margaery, sure _that’s_ major in a way: their brother and Sansa’s best friend, secret dates and a scrabble to get her out the house before the dawn, blah-blah-blah. But Jon and Sansa? The two of them finding out at the same time as everyone else _finally_ realises they’ve been in love with each other their whole lives? That will be something to fucking _see_.

Dad’s saying something about wolves again. Rambling round their little front garden, kicking any and all potential projectile-missile pebbles into the yew hedges bordering the low brick walls. Bran watches him, listens indulgently. Makes the right noises. Isn’t surprised when he turns on his heel to find Theon sat on the steps leading up to the front door, head in his hands.

 _Poor bastard_ , he thinks. But he smiles warmly, makes his way up the steps and loops an arm round Theon’s shoulders.

“Come on, mate.”

*

**Theon**

_Fuck my actual life_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, anybody here? Anybody like? ***** looks round to the sound of crickets ***** OKAY! At least one of us is having fun here: ME. Stay well, honeys — and feel free to hmu, I always reply! ❤️


	2. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I wasn’t going to post today (I have a **strong** dislike of odd numbers don’t **@** me) but then this wrote itself and here we are! Enjoy, honeys. ❤️

**Jon**

Forces himself not to wink at this barmaid. Isn’t sure the alternative is any less creepy. A different type of owl, maybe. Caffeinated. Wide-open eyes as he nods his thanks and smiles. She visibly recoils; doesn’t give him a tray. He stammers an apology — _thank you sorry keep the change cheers okay ’scuse me sorry thanks_ — and bids a hasty retreat.

He is wearing most of the beer by the time he’s back at the little corner table they’ve nabbed. Bottle of wine wedged into his armpit. Wallet between his teeth, fingers splayed wide round bottle-necks and glasses. He raises his eyebrows at them all in mute appeal. Not one of them reaches out to help. Laugh at him instead as he swears at them through the leather in his mouth.

Spits the wallet out. “Thanks a _lot_. Bunch of pricks.”

“That’s us.” Arya frames her face in her hands, beaming up at him like she’s posing for some cutesy Instagram photo. “Now give me my fucking wine.”

Rummages the bottle out from his armpit, rolls his eyes to the heavens as Arya makes kissy-sounds in his general direction and snatches the wine from his hand. Slops half of it over the tabletop before Gendry takes it off her and pours with a steady(ish) hand. Like he’s turned wine into water or whatever the fuck that special magic-messiah-man — _Peter? Paul? J- JOHN!_ — did, the way she beams up at him. Jon slides into his seat, averts his eyes.

“Urgh.” Sansa grimaces as Arya pulls Gendry in for a kiss. “Talk about PDA.” Turns to side-eye Jon, lifts her brow conspiratorially. “Vile.”

“Yeah.” Jon tries to tear his eyes away from Sansa’s moving mouth. “Vile.” She’s got lipstick on tonight: dark. Makes him think of a plum. A sweet, _sweet_ plum. “Absolutely vile.” 

*

**Bran**

“There you go, mate.”

Eases his arm away from Theon’s shoulders as he deposits him on the sofa. Theon groans, folds into the cushions like a crumpled paper-doll. Mutters something Bran doesn’t quite catch save a word or two — _fuck_ , _life, urgh_ — then groans again. Leaves him on the sofa, steps up to the window at the front of the lounge. Peers through the slats in the blind.

“Dad.” Knocks on the window-glass. “ _Dad_.”

His father looks up like a startled deer, foot frozen midway through kicking another errant projectile-pebble into the hedge. Frowns when he makes out Bran’s face at the window. Waves a hand dismissively, rumbles something so thick with northern smoke even Bran struggles to decipher it. Rolls his eyes. Probably something about wolves. Lets the blind-slats snap shut. Turns back to face the crumpled heap that is Theon.

“Fucked it,” comes the muffled mewl from amongst the cushions. “I have _fucked_ it.”

Bran feigns innocence. “What have you fucked?”

“Sansa.”

Didn’t expect _that_. “Sorry, what?”

“Wait. No.” Theon struggles up onto his elbows. “Not _Sansa_. I fucked… Sansa. In a different — in a different _sense_.” Claps a hand to his forehead. “Look. I didn’t _fuck_ Sansa. I just _fucked_ Sansa.” Throws his hands down onto the sofa with an exasperated sigh. “Look, Bran. _Bran_ , look. You — you just don’t understand — I _fucked_ _Sansa_.”

Puts a finger to his chin. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. “Theon.” Taps his lip with his fingertip. “Shall we stop talking about whether or not you fucked my sister?” 

“I _didn’t_ fuck Sansa!” snaps Theon. “That’s the whole _point_ , Bran.” Shakes his fists then buries his face in them. “Urgh. My _head_.” Rocks back against the sofa, lifts his face from his hands. Eyes shut, bottom lip jutting out. “Can I have some water please?”

Bran makes a little noise of disgruntled acquiescence. Backs up toward the kitchen. Keeps his eyes on Theon as he sags back into the sofa-cushions, eyes still closed, lips tweaking up into the smallest of smiles. Bran turns on his heel then, tries to step away from the little threads that life is desperately trying to wrap around him. Not too late to snap them. _Never_ too late to snap them… right?

*

**Sansa**

Reapplies her lipstick. Ducks down to level with the phone-screen Jon is hefting for her to use as a mirror. Smacks her lips together, dabs a little smudge off her cupid’s bow, then caps the lipstick with gusto. Misses. Blows a sigh out like a horse as she watches the lipstick-lid clatter across the sticky tabletop.

They both reach for it at the same time: Sansa pinning it with her fingers, Jon going for the open-palm swat that inevitably lands as a hard smack on top of Sansa’s hand.

“Ow!”

“Sorry! I was just — ”

“I already _had_ — ”

“ — then your hand just was _there_.”

Fixes him with a scowl as she pulls her hand back. Tries to keep the frown levelled at his smirking face; but it is incredibly difficult to concentrate on both that _and_ capping her lipstick successfully. Manages it — _just_. Half-lifts off her seat to slip the lipstick into her pocket, then thumps back down and flashes a fiery look at him.

“It’s not _funny_ ,” she scolds. “You _hurt_ me, Jon.”

“I said sorry.” He puts his head to one side. “Does it still hurt?”

Hums against her wine-glass. “Mm-hmm.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

Familiar, the teasing look he’s got fixed on her. “Yes.”

“Now?”

Decidedly _un_ familiar, the new heat building in her belly as he trails a fingertip across the back of her hand. “Now.”

“Sure you don’t want Theon to kiss it better?” he asks innocently.

Grapples a grip on the finger he’s tracing her hand with. “You prick.”

Their hands twist together. Not the first time. Christ, they’ve practically _grown up_ together. Used to hold his hand in the playground. Bent his fingers back to make him scream _Peanuts! Peanuts!_ as she basked in victory. Palms pattering together when she forced him to play pat-a-cake with her during the summer holidays. Even years later — years and _years_ later — she still grabs his hand for balance on a night out. Or to pull him onto the dancefloor. Or to jag him away when he and Robb get a little _too_ intent on defending her honour…

Not the first time they’ve held hands.

Not by a long shot.

But this is _different_.

That heat in her belly is spreading. Lower. Lower. _Fucking hell_. Flushing up to her throat even as it blooms between her thighs. Her fingers are trembling. He frowns down at their interlocked hands as he feels it. Looks back up at her and — _Jesus fuck_ — she wonders how she’s never noticed just how beautiful his eyes are.

“Sans?” he says softly.

“Earlier,” she blurts before she can bite it back. “That thing you asked me.” Oh God, his beautiful fucking _eyes_. “Why did you ask it?”

*

**Arya**

Slots herself against the broad, rather hot-damn- _fine_ -looking back at the bar. Wraps her arms round his waist, hands resting on that rock-hard belly that makes her want to combust even now, even _here_ surrounded by sweaty drunks and sweary revellers. Tilts up on her tiptoes, anchors her chin on his shoulder.

“Hey, cutie. Want to get out of here?”

Feels the vibration of Gendry’s chuckle ebb into her chest. “You trying to chat me up?”

“Don’t know,” she breathe-laughs into his ear. “Is it working?”

Half-turns to look at her. “Throw me a line about heaven and angels and me being pretty and maybe then we can talk.”

“You are _so_ pretty.” Mists the words between kisses against his neck. “Mm. Just the prettiest most perfect little — ”

“No,” he rumbles. “That’s you, dickhead.”

Turns and swallows her retort in a kiss that takes her breath away and makes her blood swirl white-hot into her cheeks. Fingers smoothing the dark hair escaped from her space-buns off her brow. Thumb hooking the corner of her jaw. Moans a little against his tongue. Pulls back, brushes her nose against his own.

“Are we too much?”

He smiles. “Probably.”

“Are we that couple everyone hates?”

He laughs now. “Definitely.”

“Do we care?”

Pulls her close, rolls her lip between his teeth. “Absolutely not.” 

*

**Theon**

On his second pint of water. Was sick halfway through the first. But he’s okay now — he’s _fine_. Cramped in the downstairs bathroom of the Stark family home, Bran on his knees beside him. Hand between his shoulder-blades, comforting rubs as he groans into the glass and makes bubbles in the water.

“Little sips,” says Bran.

“Urgh,” says Theon.

Hundred tastes on his tongue: metallic tang of London pipes, cheap beer, remnants of half-a-dozen shots of whiskey — the bitter burn of a fucking stupid decision. Tilts the glass to his lips, nearly chokes on it.

“Stop gulping it!”

“I’m _thirsty_.”

Bran makes a low, warning sound. “You’ll be sick again.”

“I will _not_.” Grabs at the edge of the toilet-bowl. “I’m fine, Bran. I am absolutely — ” Lurches forward as water surges back up his throat. “Oh _God_.”

Rubbing the valley between his shoulder-blades still. Fingertips trailing up the bone-notches of his spine as his belly wracks itself empty. Thumb at the base of his neck now: feather-stroke against his damp skin. Makes him shiver. Just a little. Leans back into Bran’s touch, throat on fire — head an absolute fucking _mess_.

“You’re okay,” whispers Bran. “You’re okay.”

Doesn’t realise he is crying till he tastes the salt-hot tears collecting at the corners of his mouth. Gives into it. Rests his brow to the cool porcelain, snakes a hand up over his shoulder. Finds the fingers resting there. Grips them weakly. Stomach flips at the answering squeeze. Always does.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

*

**Robb**

In lieu of a phone, he roves his eyes round the pub in search of entertainment. Tries to ignore the song on the jukebox. Cosmic justice. Fate’s cruel joke. Some heartbroken drunk’s ill-spent pound. _Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey_ … Seal crooning all around him; thoughts of petal-soft skin darkening his mind.

“What thing?”

The strain in Jon’s voice distracts him from dissecting the love-ballad and plotting the demise of the punter who selected it on the jukebox screen. Robb wafts his gaze lazily back to the table, narrows his eyes as he picks up the tension in Jon’s shoulders. Widens them again when he sees that Sansa is gripping his hand.

“You _know_ what thing,” she says impatiently.

“The thing about Theon?” asks Jon.

“Yes.”

“Well, I just — it just.” Jon flails a gesture. “It just came to mind.”

Sansa squints at him suspiciously. “It just _came to mind_ to ask me — ”

“What’s Theon done?” Robb clears his throat, leans forward. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, mate.”

Their hands spring apart as they both speak at once. Sansa smiles at him, then looks down at her dark-painted nails. Jon smiles at him, too; reaches for his beer, takes a sip that turns into a gulp. Robb looks between them then leans back a little in his chair. Drums the tabletop with his fingertips.

“What’s going on?” he asks again.

They make the same noises. Shrug their shoulders, spread their hands. He squints at them as the music builds to a crescendo around them. _Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah_ … Wishes Seal would shut the fuck up. Wishes he had his phone. Wishes his own little rose was blooming radiant beside him. Looks at Sansa, then swiftly looks away; tries to eliminate all trace of _that_ thought from his mind lest it show on his face.

“Robb?” says Sansa evenly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly. “Nothing at all.”

*

**Jon**

This is bad. Very bad. Barmaid already thinks he’s an owl-eyed pervert. Now he’s sat trying to hide a hard-on underneath the table because a girl who he has grown up with touched his fucking hand. To make matters worse, her brother — his _best friend_ — is now resolutely staring across at them with some untold agony etched into his eyes. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” says Sansa archly.

“It’s nothing,” says Robb in the same acid tone.

Breathing through his nose. _One, two, three_. Holding it. Out through his mouth. _Four, five, six_. Fire in his belly, flames raging the valleys of his veins. Shifts a little and nearly groans. White and black and blue bursting behind his eyes; cock straining the confines of his jeans. Looks down at the tabletop, fingers flexing round his beer-bottle.

“It’s nothing,” repeats Sansa. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” says Robb.

They sound faraway. Drifting somewhere well-removed from the beat of blood and breath that’s defining the boundaries of his existence right this second. Strain, pulse, throb, _ache_ — the scent of her perfume clinging to her skin like wildflowers in the summertime. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Vaguely aware of a vast shadow swallowing up the table. Gendry’s voice. Chorus of agreement; chairs scraping.

“Oi.” Arya’s voice behind him, finger poking at his shoulder. “Shall we go?”

“Just — one minute.” Jon grips onto the table-edge, hulks down in his seat. “Give me a minute.”

Sansa frowns at him in bafflement. “Why?”

“I just need a minute,” he grits out between his teeth. “I’ll see you lot outside.” Bites the inside of his cheek as he forces himself to smile at each of them. “Okay?”

“Whatever.” Arya tosses over her shoulder as they all turn to go. “See you outside, weirdo.”

“Yep,” says Jon tightly. “See you outside.”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

*

**Arya**

Cold air, warm Gendry. Huddles into him as they pile out of the double-doors. Robb is digging in his pocket for a cigarette; Sansa is clamouring for a lighter. Ink-dark sky shot through with city lights. Raucous shouts from further down the street. Gamey old drunk bellowing out a sea-shanty. Beautiful, beautiful London; makes her sigh a little wistfully.

Tucks her cheek against Gendry’s chest. “I reckon Jon’s shat himself.”

“Ar _ya_!” snorts Sansa.

“Did you not _see_ the look on his face?”

Robb cuts her off. “Shall we get a pizza?”

“Yes!” shrills Sansa. “God, I _love_ pizza.” 

“I’ll go order it,” says Robb, then slaps a hand to his forehead. “Fuck! Shit. Dad still has my fucking phone.”

Sansa rummages in her pocket. “You can use mine.”

“No, it’s fine.” Something strange in Robb’s voice now. “I’ll — I’ll just find a payphone or something.”

Arya screws her face up at him. “A _payphone_? What the fuck, Robb?”

“I — ” Robb looks from one sister to the other, blue-wide eyes: wolf sidling just a little bit outside of the pack. Shrugs his shoulders, beckons for Sansa’s phone. “Never mind.”

Sansa opens her mouth. Shuts it again as Jon bursts out from the pub. Jacket pulled tight across his front, hands tucked into his armpits. Bulls through their milling messy group, glances back over his shoulder impatiently.

“Shall we go then?” he says shortly.

Arya slips her fingers between Gendry’s — swoops up to her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“ _Definitely_ shat himself.”

*

**Bran**

On the sofa. Theon lolling against him, half-asleep, tawny hair brushing his throat. Seasalt. Cigarette smoke. Spice of cologne. Malt liquor. Closes his eyes. Tries not to breathe it in, tries to keep his body rigid, spine straight. Looks up as the front door swings open, clicks shut. Boots kicked off. Old man groan.

Dad pokes his head into the living room. “The wind’s changed,” he says conversationally. “Storm’s coming.” Gives a great billow of a sigh. “Wouldn’t want to be a lone wolf out there tonight.” Dark grey eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “Night, son.”

“Night, Dad.”

Listens to the creak of the stairs. Footfall across the upper hallway. Rattle of the wind against the window-glass. Ebb of Theon’s breath. Storm’s coming — one he suddenly doesn’t feel _quite_ so ready for. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Closes his eyes again. Threads spinning tight behind his lids. No use trying to fight them. Too late for that.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think 2 more chapters! Also I made a (terrible) picset! [Here](https://charmtion.tumblr.com/post/190610881066/home-truths-another-crap-picset-to-celebrate) it is. Storm Stark-Snow-Greyjoy-Tyrell **_coming soooooooon_** … 💥


	3. Pizza King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Clarification carried over from last chapter comments: **everyone** in this fic (excl. Rickon and the dawgs) is **18+** SO… **_happy shipping_** , honeys! 🍕

**Robb**

Payphone plan has failed. Utterly. His sisters have picked up a scent of suspicion and — to be honest — he’s not even sure if payphones are a _thing_ anymore. Plays it cool. Takes the phone Sansa is proffering, smiles (probably) a little too widely at the narrowed eyes she turns on him. Types in the number with a flourish, hefts the phone to his ear with a toss of his head. 

Rings for an age. Half a street, half a cigarette. Still ringing. Jon marching off up ahead, shoulders hunched, head ducked down as if he sensed the rain that’s just starting to fall in little spits and spats. Sansa stalking in her heeled boots, humming something about _extra cheese_ and _ooooh, maybe some wings?_ then turning to shout at Arya for confirmation.

Still fucking ringing. Robb is getting impatient now. Pressing the phone to his ear so tightly the cartilage is beginning to ache. Fingertips itching to punch in the number he’s desperate to call; belly dip-dip- _diving_ at the thought of hearing her petal-soft purr slipping through the speaker like slow-poured honey — 

“HELLO IS _PIZZA KING_ WHAT YOU WANT?”

Jumps away like the phone’s suddenly detonated in his hand. Machine-gun fire of questions ricocheting through the speaker. Hand clasped to his chest as he tries to keep up, blue-wide eyes darting to and fro between the shouty voice and the shouty shouts of his sisters demanding chicken-wings and cheese and _a discount for doubling up both please_ —

“NO DISCOUNT. WANT DOUBLE PAY DOUBLE.”

Tries to barter. Fails. Utterly. Vein throbbing across his forehead as he rubs his knuckles into a tight spot above his left eye. Machine-gun fire; multiple impacts. Limping toward the finish line when an ear-splitting sound blares down the speaker and the shouty voice shouts a shouty command.

“Yeah — _yes_ okay I can hold.” Puts Sansa’s phone against his shoulder, rolls his eyes up at their little group gathered round him. “Since when do fucking _pizza_ places put people on hold?” Phone crackles; swoops it back to his ear. “Hello? Hi. _Hello_ — yes, sorry, hi. No! No. I didn’t _mean_ to shout. I thought you couldn’t hear — I _said_ I thought you couldn’t _hear_ me.”

*

**Sansa**

Laughing herself silly as Robb does battle with the _Pizza King_ guy over the phone, trying to drown out the confusing thoughts bursting black-blue behind her eyes. Cheese, yes. Wings. _No discount_. The heat of Jon’s hand in her own earlier. Mm. That, too. His eyes. Ink-dark with an intent she is aching for him to follow through on. How wet she’s been since he trailed a fingertip across the back of her hand. Getting wetter — in more ways than one — as she watches him shoulder his way through the rain.

Catches up to him before she’s even given her feet permission to move. Hand snaking through the crook in his arm. Links herself to him, all blue-eyed innocence as he turns to cast a knowing look at her.

“Sansa…”

Bats her eyelashes at him. “What?”

“Nope,” he says. “Not happening.”

Breath tangling in her throat. “What’s not happening?”

“You do this every time we go out.” Lifts a brow at her. “Every bloody time.”

Frowning now, because she is a _little_ confused. “Do what?”

“Get halfway home just _fine_ — and _then_ start pouting for a piggyback.” Wiggles the hefted brow at her. “But it’s not happening. Not tonight.”

“That’s not what I — ” Widens her eyes as she catches herself. “Never mind.” Smiles prettily, tosses a shout over her shoulder now. “So what are we doing, guys?”

But Jon tugs on the hand she’s got on his arm till she whirls back to face him. “ _Sansa_.” Low and dark as cigarette smoke, the way his voice creeps out. She swallows. Hard. “What _is_ happening here?”

“What do you mean?”

He opens his mouth — fucking _fuck_ mm yes she is suddenly, violently fixated by that pretty pink tongue and knows _exactly_ where she’d like it — but is drowned out by the rain-soaked chorus piping up behind them. Shuts his mouth with a scowl. Pretty pink tongue disappears and she can _breathe_ again. Some unspoken signal between them; they both turn to face their sidling little pack. Hands stay link-locked on his arm, though.

That heat between her thighs? Mm, yes — that stays, too.

*

**Arya**

“Pub?” offers Gendry. “Club?”

“Little jaunt,” says Robb with a shimmy. “Little joint?”

Arya screws her face up at him. “What even _are_ you?”

“No weed,” says Sansa firmly. “Not after last time.”

Robb splutters. “I wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“No,” she agrees. “You weren’t bad — you were _awful_ , Robb. Fucking awful.”

“Okay!” Holds up his hands. “No weed… what are we going to do instead?”

“I’m _tired_ ,” says Jon in a sing-song-drunk-Sansa-voice that makes everyone hold their sides and wheeze. “My _feet_ hurt.”

Sansa smacks his shoulder. “I want my _pizza_.”

“I don’t just want to wander round,” remarks Gendry placidly.

“That’s a point,” says Robb.

Arya waves a gesture at him. “What’s a point?”

“The pizza,” he says.

Sansa wails. “I _want_ it.”

“It’s getting delivered,” continues Robb. “So — ”

“Home?” asks Arya.

“Home,” says Robb.

“ _Home_ ,” shrills Sansa.

Jon hefts a hand in the air. “To the Stark residence!”

*

**Theon**

Heavy water all around him. Weight of it. Warmth of it. Shuffles in his sleep; but there is no panic, no gasp for air, no flail of feet. He isn’t drowning — he is floating. Buoyant on his back, cushioned, calm, sheltered, _safe_. Hasn’t felt like this since he was a child fed on bedtime stories and a mother’s love. Hasn’t felt like this for such a long time.

Ruffle of a sigh at his ear: ebb-and-flow of sea over sand. Rolls toward it, aware of the first little bits of bloodshot light eking beneath his lids. Doesn’t open them, still in some halfway land between dreams and wakefulness: a lone rover gliding across the seabed of sleep. But he is conscious enough to know that he likes this place, that he likes the warmth and weight of whatever is cushioning him. Conscious enough to know that it is not water. It is something deeper, darker. Woodland soil. Pine-needles. Spice of woodsmoke. Craft ale. Breathes it in. Opens his eyes. Slowly.

His cheek is pressed to the warm hollow of Bran’s chest: flat of a stone left out in the sun. Steady rise and fall of breath; feels his head move slowly with it. Arm looped lightly round his shoulders, fingers flexing on the silky black sheen of the grown-up shirt he picked out specially to wear to his interview. Marketing job. Sansa’s heads-up. Stupid lurch in the pub doorway. _After_. Closes his eyes. Wishes it would all go away. Groans very softly.

Bran stirs beneath him. “Feeling better, mate?”

“ _Mate_ ,” he repeats just as softly. “Do mates do this?”

“Do what?”

Smooths the palm flung across Bran’s chest slowly. “This.”

“Nothing in it,” says Bran quietly.

Beat of quiet: shuffle of sofa-cushions as Theon lifts his head to look up at Bran. They watch each other with a weary wariness all too familiar.

“Isn’t there?”

“Theon — ”

“HELLO,” comes a cry from the letterbox. “IS _PIZZA KING_ DELIVERY FOR MR BOB STARK. _HELLO_. MR BOB? NINETEEN NINETY-NINE. NO DISCOUNT! MR BOB?”

*

**Robb**

It’s a rain-soaked blur getting home. Should probably be paying more attention to what is going on around him — Jon taking his jacket off and helping Sansa into it, Arya and Gendry disappearing down a redbrick alleyway then miraculously reappearing sometime later — but there’s water in his eyes and an ache in his heart and he just wants to get home to his phone and his sweet-voiced lady love and _fuck_ why can’t his feet just move faster.

“Bullocks.” Pats his pockets as they near the house. “Anyone got a key?”

Sansa shrugs. “Dad might’ve left a — ”

“He _never_ leaves a key out,” scoffs Arya, turns to gaze up at the hulking shadow beside her. “Gendry, find a pebble.”

They all hunt for one but — for once — the lawn seems miraculously clear of any and all potential projectile-missile pebbles. Robb toes at the yew hedges fruitlessly, skulked down into his shoulders as the rain continues to fall. Nearly falls flat on his own face as he drops suddenly to his knees in shock at the crack and clatter renting up the night. 

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims. “What the fuck was that?”

“A _pebble_ , Gendry,” Arya is saying. “I said a _pebble_ — not a fucking _brick_!”

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Gendry,” huffs Robb.

“You fucking idiot, Gendry,” sighs Jon.

“Oh, Gendry,” says Sansa. “Not _again_.”

“Leave him alone!” snaps Arya. Scrabbles at the ledge, turns toward her giant man-baby brick-chucking boyfriend with a glow of pure white-hot love in her eyes. “Give me a boost, baby.”

She is slithered halfway over the window-ledge when the front door bursts open. Gendry drops back in shock, falls onto his arse on the damp lawn. Sansa shrieks and grabs at Jon. Robb nearly does the same — the _sight_ of the pale thing standing brazenly in the doorway is enough to make him choke and splutter some half-arsed _stay back, STAY BACK!_ whilst simultaneously backing off himself.

“What is it?” shouts Arya from her perch. “What’s happening?”

“Stay back!” cries Robb. “Who are you? How did you get into our house? What do you — I said _stay back_!”

“It’s me!” the pale thing shouts. “It’s me!”

Sansa propels Jon half a step forward. “Is that — ”

“Cat!” comes a booming shout from the darkened hallway. “I told you to _wait_ for me.” Dad bounds out of the front door, teeters down the steps and staggers on his feet as he surveys the scene like a wolf poised to leap at threats to his den. It takes a moment for him to register their shocked faces. He blinks at them. “Kids?”

*

**Jon**

There is — perhaps — three minutes of total silence. Nobody moves. Even Arya up on her perch half-wriggled through the broken window is bent motionless. Gendry gazes up from the lawn. Robb is braced like a sumo wrestler with the raised hands of a boxer. Jon is a few steps behind him, absolutely open-mouthed, hand still gripping Sansa’s arm where he thrust her behind him in anticipation of an attack. She has her arms wrapped round his waist so tightly he can feel the beer sloshing from one side of his belly to the other.

“Hello, kids.” Ned is still blinking. “I, uh — I — ”

“Why the _fuck_ are you naked?” asks Sansa very quietly.

Robb gestures to the trembling pale figure in the doorway. “Why is _Mum_ naked?”

“Were you just — were you just _fucking_?”

“Sansa!” scolds Cat from the doorway. “Mind your language.”

“What?” says Ned at the same time. “No, of course we — ”

“Oh fucking _hell_ ,” squeals Sansa. “I feel _sick_.”

“Don’t be a dick, Sans,” shouts Arya from up above them. “Old people have got needs, too.”

Ned cranes his neck. “Ar— oh, by the _old fucking gods_ — look at the window!”

“What window?” asks Cat.

“ _Exactly_.” Ned flails at them all, shakes a fist. “I left a bloody key out!”

“Where?” they pipe in unison.

“Under the plant-pot,” spits Ned. “What did you smash it with?”

“Pebble,” says Gendry from the lawn.

Ned starts back up the steps with a grumble. “Pebble my _arse_.”

Everyone files into the house, trying very hard to ignore the flashing ivory of Ned’s (actual) bare arse in the rain-swept moonlight. Jon pauses awkwardly as Sansa bends to take her shoes off; forces him to make eye contact with a lingering Cat. They stare at each other politely. Seem frozen to the spot even after Sansa has moved off.

“I — I don’t know what to say.”

Jon shows his palms in a peace-keeping gesture. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Ned just gets very — very _you know_.”

He nods politely. “Right.”

“Pint or two in his system and it’s like he’s a teenager again — ”

“Mm-hmm,” says Jon. “I see.”

“ — and, well, we didn’t think anyone would…” Cat suddenly pauses, blinks at Jon like a cornered rabbit. “Why am I telling you all this?”

“I’m not sure,” says Jon as evenly as he can manage. He makes a gesture. “Shall we…?”

“Oh, yes. Yes!” Cat snaps her fingers. “Let’s go in.”

“Do you…” Jon shifts on his feet. “Do you want to put my shirt on first?”

Cat frowns at him as if he has said something _very_ inappropriate. He waits patiently as realisation and awareness flits across her face like tides of dawn-light. She looks down at herself in horror. He says nothing. Shrugs out of the shirt, settles it on her bare — very, _very_ bare — shoulders with nary a word, follows her into the house. Turns to close the front door behind him; bites his cheeks to stifle his laughter. _God_ , he fucking loves this family.

*

**Bran**

Pandemonium.

A very unique sort of pandemonium consisting of multiple pizza-boxes, a pack of dogs fighting over a side-order of garlic bread — and a pack of wolves stood awkwardly round the edges of the living room watching it all unfold.

Dad is in one of Mum’s silk kimonos. Mum is pulling a faded plaid shirt across her torso; a faded plaid shirt that looks suspiciously like the one Jon’s been wearing all night. Bran narrows his eyes, swings a look round the crowded room.

Jon is without said shirt, looking brazenly bare in his black tee, raking a hand through his rain-soaked curls, staring at the carpet. Sansa shifts from one foot to the other at his side, her dark-painted lips parted in a tremulous smile. Theon stares back at her like a wounded antelope unable to outrun the lion hunting it. Arya and Gendry are feeding each other slices of pizza, greasily oblivious to the storm that is raging in front of their faces.

“Pa-pa-pizza is here!” declares Robb in a terrible accent as he bowls back into the lounge.

“Shut _up_ ,” groans Arya through a mouthful of cheese and dough. “That wasn’t funny when we were twelve — and it’s _still_ not funny now we’re all twenty-something aspiring adults.”

Jon unfreezes, swoops down to snatch up a slice. “Lighten up, short-arse.”

“Don’t be a dickhead,” says Sansa, hitting his shoulder then diving into the box too.

“ _Language_ , Sansa,” scolds Mum.

“Oh, _Mum_.” Sansa rolls her eyes. “After the night I’ve had, I think I’m allowed to — ” Blue-wide eyes freezing as she looks up to the sofa. “Never mind.”

“Sansa,” says Theon very softly. “I — I’m so sorry.”

“What you sorry for?” Robb nips a string of cheese from his lips with his fingers, licks it up in a way that makes them all shudder. “What _happened_ tonight? Everyone’s been weird.”

Arya whoops a laugh. “That’s rich of you, Mr Payphone.”

“Mr Bob Stark,” says Bran lightly. “According to the _Pizza King_ guy.”

They all laugh at that and Bran thinks that — _maybe_ — the storm’s blown over. Wolves are circling together now as the rain rattles the window-glass. Smiling. Soft words spilling into chuckles. Dad sitting cross-legged in a kimono in his armchair, Mum dandling on his lap. Sansa feeding Lady strips of cheese — _ooooh, who’s the prettiest Lady of them all? You are! Yes, you are, my sweet baby_ — Jon and Robb fighting over the last chicken-wing. Even Theon has relaxed; Bran can feel the tension fade from him as they sit side-by-side on the sofa.

Doorbell chimes. Gendry goes to get it, emerges back into the living room with a placidly-surprised expression. Waft of rosewater perfume accompanies him. Sansa sits up a little straighter on the carpet, fingers tightening on Lady’s collar.

“What are you doing here?” she asks incredulously.

Margaery takes a sweet-smelling step into the room. “Robb wasn’t answering his phone and I was worried that — ”

“Hang on.” Sansa holds up a finger. “ _Hang_ the fuck _on_.” Looks from her best friend to her brother and back again. “Why were _you_ ringing Robb?”

Storm’s not blown-over, Bran realises. Storm has just this second arrived.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I’m **sorry** — 2 more chapters — 6 in total (1 of which will be written exclusively to the sound of _Let’s get it oooooon_ playing softly in the background) Hope you enjoyed Naked!Ned, Spiderman!Arya, and Gentleman!Jon giving up all his clothes what a sweetheart — and hope that you are not bored by this story yet! Love and laughter to you all, honeys. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** that is a little collage I made because I have figured out how to put actual images in end-notes and I am very excited about that. Okay, bye!


	4. Fight Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Accusations. Explosions. Revelations. Resolutions. Robb being a little shit. Let’s goooooo. 💥

**Arya**

Teeth champing shut on air as she drops her slice of pizza. Senses a shift in the room: a sweet-smelling shift. Looks up to find Sansa shooting daggers at the doorway. Gendry with a faint look of alarm glowing in his placid eyes. Margaery pretty as a cat with a swishy, fluffy tail stepping into the lounge.

Mouths a command to Gendry — _come here, dickhead_ — sees relief leap with the alarm in his eyes. Darts across the carpet quick as his considerably-sized frame will allow. He knocks into the stack of pizza-boxes, sends crusts flying. Trips over a pot of garlic dip and winds up with a thick, white strip of it coating his knee as he crawls the last few feet to his sanctuary at Arya’s side. Closes her eyes to the mess, breathes through her nose.

“Hey up, Margaery,” rumbles Dad, oblivious to the total _Cat-On-a-Hot-Tin-Roof-Act-I-Scene-1-lights-camera-claws-out-ACTION_ moment unfolding right in front of him. “Long time no see. How’s your — ”

Mum stamps down hard on his foot. “Not _now_ , Ned.” 

“Sansa — ”

“ _Margaery_.”

“Robb — ”

“What’s going — ”

“Be _quiet_ , Ned.”

Two shrill voices together now. “ _Robb_.”

Hears a whimper. Looks over her shoulder to find Gendry huddled close against her back. Her brave massive man-baby boyfriend. Rolls her eyes. Pats his knee. Wrinkles her nose up as she pulls it away: palm covered in garlic dip. Closes her eyes to the mess, breathes through her screwed-up nose.

*

**Robb**

This isn’t good. This is bad. Very bad. He’s lapsed on the carpet like Gendry was on the lawn: tilted back on his arse, stupid half-open mouth, gazing up in bewilderment.

Margaery is here. _His_ Margaery. His lovely, sweet, soft, slow-poured honey, purring rose-petal (secret) lady love — except right now she is none of those things. She is thorns and jagged stems and a wasp high on pollen about to sink a sting in his fucking heart.

And he is scared. Very, very scared.

 _Fuck, fuck, FUCK_.

“Are you — ” Sansa makes a furious gesture “ — with _Robb_? With my _brother_ Robb?”

“Sansa, I can explain,” says Margaery. “Sansa, _please_ — ”

But she is rounding on him already. “You slimy prick!”

“I — ”

“ _Sansa_ ,” hisses Margaery. “Let me just explain —”

“Sansa,” he says feebly. “Margie — ”

They both whirl on him at once. “Shut the fuck up, Robb.”

“ _Margie_?” parrots Arya.

“Arya!” scolds Mum.

“Sans…” tries Jon.

“ _Robb_ ,” growls Sansa.

“Can everybody _stop_ saying names? _Please_.” Dad has his head in his hands. “It’s getting very confusing.”

“Be _quiet_ , Ned.”

Robb frantically evaluates this (very bad, _extremely_ bad) situation. Fights to find some sort of leverage. Something to soothe his (not so secret) lady love. Something to placate his sister. Roves his eyes round the living room till he spots something to seize: Jon’s hand slotted round Sansa’s wrist, desperately trying to tug her back onto the carpet.

Suddenly it all makes sense. It all makes total brilliant, perfect, fuck-yes-he’s-off-the-hook _sense_. Doesn’t care that it’s obviously not _true_. Sansa and _Jon_? That would be _ridiculous_. Still, it’s leverage. And right now he needs leverage. So he’s sitting on it ready, primed, locked-and-loaded _ready_ as Sansa rears back her head and spits fire at him.

“You’re _fucking_ my _best_ friend?”

“ _You’re_ fucking _my_ best friend!”

Her eyes are blue-wide and burning. “What?”

“What?” says Jon and Theon at the same time.

“ _What_?” says everyone else in unison.

*

**Bran**

Feels Theon freeze up against him as Robb waves a hand at the sofa.

“Not _you_ ,” he snaps. “ _Jon_.” Looks round the room very smugly. “Sansa is fucking _Jon_.” Rolls his shoulders out, smirk widening as he stares at Sansa. “That’s why everyone has been so weird tonight. Because you and Jon — ”

Arya groans. “You fucking idiot, Robb. That’s _not_ why.”

“It’s not?” asks Robb in a small voice.

“No,” sighs Arya.

“Then why?”

Bran wants nothing more than to slip a hand onto Theon’s knee, cradle the notch of bone in his palm and give it a reassuring squeeze. But he sits on his fingers. Robb is still asking the same question — _why, why, why_ — like a toddler being told he can’t have any more sweets. Jon has still got a hold on Sansa’s wrist as he looks up at her from the floor. She’s looking down at him. Bran wonders how everyone else is just so fucking _blind_. Chasing errant threads when the main fucking tapestry is busy being woven right in front of them.

“For the love of the _old fucking gods_.” Dad rakes a hand back through his hair. “Somebody tell him why! _Please_.”

Sansa glances toward the sofa. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” whispers Theon.

Bran clears his throat. “Dad — ”

“Why?” snaps Robb. “Why, why, _why_ — ”

“Because Theon tried to kiss Sansa!” explodes Jon at last. “That’s why!” Rocked up to his feet, now he sways on them, winces as he half-turns toward the sofa. “Sorry, mate.”

“He _what_?!” says Robb.

“That’s what I said.”

“Ar _ya_!” scolds Mum.

“Theon,” says Robb, softer now. “What the fuck?”

“I — ”

“Oh, _Theon_ ,” murmurs Sansa. Turns to gaze at all of them hanging wide-eyed round the lounge. “It’s not how it _sounds_.” Looks down at her feet, then up at the ceiling; shoulders dipping and rising to mirror her eyes. “He was just — he was just _trying_ to — ”

“To what?” cuts in Robb. “Just _trying_ to what?” Leapt up from the carpet now: stoop-shouldered as a circling wolf. “Theon, explain yourself.”

Bran can feel the tremor that shakes through Theon like the ebb-and-flow of a tide. Scrapes into his body: sea over sand and suddenly he can’t bear to feel another tremble. Can’t bear for Theon to shake and crumple and collapse in a heap on the sofa again. Closes his eyes for half a breath. Threads spinning tight behind his lids now. No use trying to fight them. Too late for that and — _fuck it_ — he’s going to have to snatch up this tapestry by its tatty bloody corners and shake out all the dust from it just to make them see what is _really_ going on here.

 _Sorry, Jon_ , he thinks as he gets to his feet. _Sorry, Sans_.

They are both staring at him now. Like they know what he’s about to say. Like they can _see_ with a sudden shocking clarity the truth of what he knows, of what they don’t even know themselves — _yet_. They’ll know soon enough. They will _all_ know.

*

**Jon**

Blinking like a fucking (grumpy) owl — he just _knows_ he is. Can’t stop, though. Staring at Bran like he’s got his beating heart in his pale hands. Feels it wrench and flit between the crooks of his ribs because he _knows_ that look in Bran’s eyes. That filmy haze that slips down when it’s truth time: the look he wears when they’ve shared half a joint and philosophy slides out to mingle with the smoke on the air. _Shit_.

“Jon,” says Sansa very, very softly.

“Shh.” Heart full-on rips and bursts in his chest. “It’s okay, Sans.”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Theon doesn’t need to explain anything,” says Bran in a voice smooth as polished stone. “Why he tried to kiss Sansa isn’t important.” Surveys the room like a pastor, a priest, some holy man hefting up a fucking light-beam. “What’s important is right in front of you.” Flicks his eyes from person to person. “Right in front of _all_ of you.”

Arya blows a raspberry. “Enough of the philosophical claptrap, bro. _Please_.”

“Robb and Margaery.” Gendry clears his throat. “Robb and Margaery _aren’t_ fucking?”

“Try again,” says Bran.

Gendry pauses, ponders. “Robb and Margaery _are_ fucking?”

“Well… _yes_.” Bran makes a gesture. “But that’s not really — that’s not really what I’m _trying_ to get you to see.” Hint of a smile. “Thanks for having a go, though, Gendry.”

“Yeah,” murmurs Arya, curling a hand round his nape. “Good try, baby.”

“I — ” bursts out before Jon can bite it back. _Fuck it_. Steps forward, follows the echo of his voice. “I’ve got something to say.”

“Jon?” asks Sansa very, very softly.

“Shh.” He finds her hand, grips it tight. “It’s okay, Sans.” Takes a deep breath, surveys the room as steadily as he can manage. “Me and Sansa… I think — I think we’re in _love_.”

Fingers tightening on his hand. “What?”

“What?” says Arya and Robb at the same time.

“ _What_?” says everyone else in unison.

*

**Theon**

Staring open-mouthed from the sofa now. Bran pats his knee as he sinks back down beside him. Takes every bit of strength and self-will not to snatch up that pale hand, bind it tight between his palms.

Theon feels a bit breathless. Saved him. Bran fucking _saved_ him. Could have sat and done nothing. Could’ve let the others dig away till they outed him. But he stood up. He said something.

Breathless? Fuck that. He’s — he’s _lightheaded_. Lightheaded on a feeling swirling like butterflies in his belly. A feeling like — _fuck, fuck, fuck_ — a feeling like —

“ _Love_?” repeats Sansa.

“Love,” nods Jon.

“Love?” whispers Arya.

“ _Love_ ,” says Bran.

“Love,” says Jon and Sansa at the same time. “ _Love_.”

Ned is holding a finger to his chin. “So what is — who is — what is _happening_?”

“Be _quiet_ , Ned.”

“Cat — ”

Arya narrows her eyes. “I think — ”

“You’ve said enough, Arya,” warns Cat. Turns to look at the sofa now, softness in her sapphire eyes. “Theon, honey — ”

“I’m fine.” Holds up a hand with half a smile. “Really.”

Jon tears his eyes away from Sansa for a heartbeat. “Mate, I _am_ sorry — ”

“Not _now_ , Jon,” hisses Arya. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry.” Turns back around. “Sans?”

Like a sleepwalker waking up to the most beautiful sunrise after months of blinking awake to concrete walls, the way she is staring at Jon. Theon feels a bit breathless again, feels a tug at his own heart. Wishes he could be as free as Sansa is right now. Free with her feelings. Free with her looks as open as the sky, her smile shattering the room in light like a sunray bursting through a blanket of cloud. Wishes it, _envies_ it — but he’s happy for her at the same time. He is so happy for her he wants to weep.

“How did we never know?” Sansa is saying. “How did we never realise?”

“I don’t know.” Jon has a hand to her cheek, a thumb to her chin. “I don’t know.”

 _This is it_ , thinks Theon. The resolution to a three-act play. Confetti made of flower petals and stardust and sunshine thrown by chubby-handed cherubs. Jon slotting her jaw into his hand; Sansa tipping back her head. Orchestral music blooming to a crescendo. Angels fluttering their wings for a drumbeat steady as a heart swooning blood round a heavenly body. Sansa with her eyes half-closed; Jon caressing her bottom lip with his thumb as he leans in close. _This is it. This. Is_ —

Then comes a war-cry. A rampant Robb hurtling across the lounge. Sansa staggering back into the wall. Jon losing his knees and bowling to the carpet.

“Robb!” cries Cat.

“Robert, please!”

Everyone balks at Margaery. “ _Robert_?!”

“Rob...ert?” she says again.

“Get _away_ from her!” comes Robb’s war-cry. “That’s your _sister_!” Turns over his shoulder, blue-wide eyes beseeching. “Tell them, Dad!”

*

**Sansa**

“Woah, woah, _woah_.” Dad is bolt upright in his armchair, silk kimono pulling tight across his chest. “Hang on a minute — ”

Mum is staring at him archly. “Ned?”

Voice like a tea-kettle hissing out steam. Mum’s scary voice. Mum’s _oh-fuck-yes-you’re-in-trouble-you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-bitch_ voice. The voice that made them all duck into alcoves and hide behind curtains as kids. The voice that _still_ makes them all shrink into their shoulders even now they’re twenty-something aspiring adults. The voice that even _Dad_ is scared of.

“Cat, _no_.” Waving a hand desperately at his stupid red-headed son strutting like a chicken amongst wolves. “Robb’s had too much to drink. He’s upset.” Hand travelling the air in Jon’s direction now. “Lyanna was my best friend. That’s all. You _know_ that. I am absolutely _not_ Jon’s father.” Goes a bit teary-eyed as he always does when reminiscing about Jon’s mother. “He’s one of my boys. _Always_. You know that, don’t you, Jon? You _do_ know that? My boy… but not my _blood_ , Cat.” Scowls at Robb now. “And he is most definitely _not_ Sansa’s brother, Robb Stark.”

Robb splutters. “Practically is! We all grew up together!”

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Robb.” Arya rolls her eyes to the heavens. “We all grew up together. Big deal. _So_ observant of you, bro.” Points a finger at him now. “That is _not_ enough for you to start casually throwing fucking incest claims around. Jesus!”

“Not John!” cries Jon suddenly. “JESUS!” 

“What?” gasps Margaery. “ _What_?”

“Oh. No! _No_.” Jon looks down at the carpet. “It’s nothing.” Back up at the ceiling. “It’s just earlier — earlier I _forgot_ … never mind.”

Sansa stares at him. He stares at her. _This is it_ , she thinks. His beautiful fucking eyes. His beautiful fucking stupid _eyes_. His beautiful fucking stupid _beautiful_ eyes fixed on her own and she wants to dive in them, drown in them. Wants to pull him up off the floor and wrap her arms round his neck and finally — _finally_ — get a taste of that honey-whiskey tongue. Moves to make it so. _This is it. This. Is_ —

Robb beats her to it. “Put your hands up!”

Jon twists easily out of the grip Robb’s got on his tee shirt. They reel on their feet. Circling like wolves. Dad tries to get up from his armchair but falls back with a grunt as the silk kimono flutters free of its tie. They all shriek as Mum wrestles to get him covered back up. Sansa prays the buttons of the plaid shirt Mum’s wearing don’t flutter free to the same fate. _Hang the fuck on_. Squinting suspiciously at said plaid shirt now. Is that _Jon’s_ fucking —

Margaery’s voice snaps her back into the room. “ _Robb_ — ”

“Put your bloody hands up!” demands Robb, hop-skipping on his feet in what Sansa imagines he thinks to be a boxer’s stance.

“Robb, for fuck’s _sake_ ,” snaps Arya. “This isn’t fucking _Fight Club_!”

“Arya!” scolds Mum from midway through retying Dad’s robe. “ _Language_.”

They’re fighting. They’re actually fucking _fighting_. Grunts and groans and — _Jesus fuck_ — why are boys such absolute _dick_ heads?

“Not _now_ , Mum.” Arya turns to her giant man-baby boyfriend. “Gendry, please.”

He ambles to his gigantic feet. “Come on now, lads — ”

“Back up, big boy,” throws Robb from behind his fists.

“ _Big boy_?” shrills Sansa. “When did you start stealing Dad’s lines?”

“Or mine for that matter.”

“Ar _ya_!” groans Sansa. “TMI! TM-fucking-I!”

Dad is wrestling with his own kimono ties now. “Cat — ”

“Stay _still_ , Ned.”

Margaery is clutching at her arm now. Sansa finds her long, gold-laden fingers, grips them tight. _Sorry_ , Margie’s squeeze says. Sansa squeezes right back. _Sorry, too_. They stand and sway in the swell of the storm together. Men-folk throwing punches and ducking swings. Blood on Jon’s lip. Sweat shining on Robb’s forehead. Gendry looking to Arya for instructions as he keeps pace with them.

“Is it weird that I’m finding this kind of sexy?”

Sansa leans into Margaery’s whisper. “It _is_ kind of sexy… isn’t it?”

Their sides shaking with laughter now. Turn to look at each other. Her best friend’s big brown eyes warm as the smile on her pretty powdered cheeks. Sansa opens her arms. Margaery opens hers. Fall together in a hug.

“Friends?” murmurs Margaery.

“Forever,” whispers Sansa.

“Shall we make them stop now?”

“Suppose we should.”

Margaery smirks. “Come on then, sis.”

*

**Robb**

Hand on his neck. Smooth, soft as sun-warmed sand slipping against his skin. Drops his fists instantly. Fingers trailing the bone-notches at his nape, sliding along the curve of his shoulder. Fights the groan settling low in his throat.

“Enough,” purrs a petal-soft whisper at his ear. “Enough, my love.”

Turns to melt against his (not so secret) lady love; but Jon hasn’t quite got the memo. Last punch still spinning through the air as Margaery whispers. Lands square on Robb’s cheek, sends him flying. Sansa’s voice: low and warm. Jon’s apologies tumbling just behind the first sting of pain from the buster-knuckle bruise blooming on his cheek.

Robb doesn’t care. Barely even feels it. Waves a hand to accept Jon’s apologies. Closes his eyes. Breathes in the scent of his (lovely, _lovely_ ) lady love: expensive perfume and fresh-cut meadowsweets and rose-petals seeped in honey. Makes a grab for her. Fingers tangling in soft, brown curls. Her brow coming to press gently against his own.

“Ned,” a pinched, panicked voice faraway. “I think it’s time we went to bed, Ned. _Ned_. Quickly now. We’ve seen _more_ than enough this evening. Up you get, love. That’s it. Keep a hold of that tie. Let’s go. _Quickly_.”

Room empties out. Maybe. Robb isn’t sure. Isn’t sure of anything but those beautiful brown eyes pouring warmth into his own. Licks his lips. Her mouth falls open, sees the tremble of hunger on her tongue. Surges forward to taste it. Hint of a wasp about his lady love still – the speed with which she snaps her thighs over his hips, pushes him to the floor.

Flat on his back amongst scattered pizza-boxes, upturned pots of garlic dip, dogs carrying off crumbs and bits of chicken to the kitchen. Roll of her just _there_. Softness of her thighs dipping into the hard lines of his hipbones. Settles his hands on the swell of them, thumbs nipping into the silky flow of her skirt. Leaning low over him —

“That’s enough of that!”

“Get a fucking room!”

“Don’t remember _this_ scene being in _Fight Club_.”

“Good joke, baby,” says Arya affectionately.

Margaery airlifted off of him by several unseen hands. Jon stepping up. Towering over him. Blood on his lip. Hand extended. Robb takes it. Chests slam together in a bear-hug. Pull back. Hold each other by the shoulders.

“Friends?” murmurs Jon.

“ _Brothers_ ,” whispers Robb. “In a purely non-blood-related way.”

Laughing now: Robb, Jon — all of them. Milling wolves. Smiling kraken. Radiant little rose. All blended into one weird, dysfunctional, fucking _beautiful_ pack. Stand amongst the wreckage of pizza-boxes and garlic dips staining the carpet and chicken-wings frisbeed halfway across the floor. Hand-in-hand with their significant (not so secret) others, all smiling like lovesick fools.

“Bed?” asks Arya.

“Bed,” says Gendry.

“ _Bed_ ,” says this weird, beautiful pack before it splits up to find a few different dens to while away the night.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Real-life research is _on_ me at the moment and reading is piling _up_ and lit reviews are most definitely _not_ being written and — look look **LOOK** I just felt a little sad and deflated today and writing this cheered me up a bit so I hope you enjoyed it, too! Oh and that Marvin Gaye sound-tracked chapter? It’s coming real _**sooooooon**_ , honeys. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** also yep another little random photoset because why the hell not?!


	5. Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > This cured my writer’s block so well that I forgot all about finishing it and went back to my other wip full of vim and vigour! But I sat down to have a think about this chapter tonight and ended up writing it, yay! So without further ado here you go: **_Let’s get it ooooooooon_** \+ a bonus POV! 🎵🔥

**Sansa**

Finds a flannel as she rummages through the bathroom cabinet. Quick glance at herself in the mirror over the sink. Bites her lip at what she sees. Holy _fuck_ does she look like someone who wants it. Wants it _badly_. Shrugs her shoulders, pouts at her reflection, rolls her thighs together to try and ease the ache a little. No point fighting the obvious. Runs the flannel under the tap, carries it — dripping — into her bedroom.

Blood on Jon’s lip. His arse planted firmly on the double-bed she saved up for as a teenager. Black jeans clinging to his legs. Man-spreading like the absolute fucking mannish _man_ he is. If she was on the Tube she’d dig the point of her heel into his horrible mannish foot and force him to give back her commandeered space. But here — mm, _here_ — his wide stance is somehow the fucking sexiest thing she’s ever seen.

“Here.”

She says it like she’s going to pass him the flannel. But she doesn’t pass it. She steps up between his mannish man-spread fucking angelically-sculpted thighs and presses the flannel to his beautiful bleeding _beautiful_ lip. He stares up at her: mouth hanging softly open, eyes so dark it’s like looking into a black hole or a rip-tide or the sheen of sunlight glinting on a jaguar’s side… something like that. Something dark and dangerous and — _fuck me now fuck me now fuck me now_ — delicious and delightful all at once.

“Thank you,” he whispers all smoky and sexy and soft and it’s like his words are sliding straight up under the lace of her underwear, like his fucking tongue is caressing the sounds _right_ where she wants it lapping and licking _and_ _Jesus Lord preserve_ — “Thank you, Sansa.”

Lets the flannel fall from her fingers. “You never kissed my hand better.”

“That what you want me to kiss, hmm?” His voice a breathy breeze on the fingertips she’s trailing across his lips. “Your hand?”

Shifts on her soles. Shakes her head. “No.”

“What do you want me to kiss, Sansa?”

“I think you know.”

Gazes fixed. Black hole, rip-tide — fucking _jaguar_ as he springs to his feet, slides her round and presses her back into the mattress before she can even blink. Dimly aware she’s arching her spine and spreading her thighs in a way that would make commuter-men in polished suits fucking _quake_ on the Tube.

His lips on her throat. “Here?”

“Mm.”

Skating the sliver of belly exposed by her ridden-up shirt. “Here?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Chin on the button of her jeans. “Right _here_?”

“Oh, Jesus _fuck_.”

*

**Arya**

Eyes closed, breathing hard through her nose, counting to ten.

 _One, two, three_.

“Babe, it’s impossible with that — ”

 _Four, five, six_.

“ — it’s _distracting_ , Arya. I am trying — I _am_.”

 _Seven, eight, nine_.

“Look at me. You dickhead. _Look_ at me, please. I’m _trying_ — ”

 _Ten_.

“Gendry,” she says through tight teeth. “For the last time, he is not looking at you. He is not judging you. He doesn’t care that you are naked. He doesn’t care that _I_ am naked.” Flares open her eyes, glowers down at her boyfriend. “Neither do you apparently!”

Baby-blues widening as he blinks at her. “Babe, that is _not_ fair.” Runs his fingers down her sides, dwarfs her hips with his hands. “I do care that you are naked. I really, really _do_ — but he is _staring_ at us, Arya! I can’t fuck you with _him_ staring — ”

“Gendry!” snaps Arya. “ _He_ is a fucking bear!” Pokes a finger into his impossibly-muscled chest. “Are you a man or a mouse? Look at you! Little deer in the headlights because a fucking _teddy_ _bear_ is on the same bed as the smoking hot woman currently riding you to fucking heaven and back.” Rolls her hips to prove her point; smirks at him as he melts beneath her, low groan bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just shut up. Shut your eyes. Ignore Syrio the Sunbear and let me _come_ for fuck’s sake.” Swoops down low, catches his lips in a kiss. “Please, baby. Just _try_ … for me.”

Digs in a firmer hold to her hips. “I’ll _try_ ,” he says uncertainly. “For you.”

“Good boy.” Pats a palm to his chest, then leans back to re-find the most _perfect_ angle known to gods and men and (probably) inanimate fucking objects. “Now shut up and — oh _fuck_! Mm, yes, yes, yes… keep trying just like _that_ , baby. Just like that.”

Vaguely aware of one massive hand lifting from her hip. Manages to roll the eyes forward-facing from the back of her head enough to catch the sweep of a well-aimed stuffed sunbear flashing across the room. Hand resettling on her hip. Deep, contented sigh rumbling up from Gendry’s chest as a laugh threatens to skate up from her own.

“Sorry, Syrio,” pants Gendry as a considerate afterthought.

Arya laughs, then: a low, rich, affectionate, adoring sound. Mm, he’s a fucking idiot, this massive man-baby boyfriend of hers, true — but he is _her_ fucking idiot. All — _mm, yes, yes, yes, mm, yeeeeees_ — hers.

*

**Bran**

Rain is still falling softly, but with the brazier on and a blanket pulled round their shoulders the patio is warm enough. Bran leans back into the loveseat, looks up at the canvas stretched above, listens to the pitter-patter of waterdrops catching on it, winding wet trails from its edge: silver-grey slashes against the ink-dark night.

“Thank you,” comes a soft voice at his side.

Closes his eyes, then turns toward it. “For what?”

“For saying something,” drops to a whisper. “For not outing me.”

Bran stares at Theon; Theon stares at Bran. Something shifting in the blue-grey ebb of their eyes, the flickers of tension finally fading. Lean together in the rainswept night; fingers brushing beneath the blanket.

“Why did you kiss her?”

Theon tenses up a fraction. “You know why.”

“Tell me,” says Bran softly.

“Because — because I can’t be _this_. I can’t be who I am.” Endless sea in those soft eyes now, damp at the edges, dragging up coarse sand and rough stone. “I can’t _let_ myself be that.”

“Who are you?”

“Don’t make me say it, Bran.”

Skates a sigh between his teeth. “I’d never make you say anything. You know that.” Feels a well of calm settle in his chest as the jagged panic leaves Theon’s eyes. “Just… just talk. Tell me anything. You know I like to listen to you talk.”

Pitter-patter of raindrops; tears shining on Theon’s cheeks. Smile on his lips though. Head leant weakly on Bran’s shoulder as he spins a tale that Bran has heard a thousand times before — a tale that Bran knows Theon’s mother told and taught him a lifetime ago before death and grief and anger hardened a little bit of his heart. Closes his eyes, listens to the rhythms of the bedtime story, feels it settle like seaspray on his skin.

Ebbs out to quiet eventually. Lean together as they listen to the rain. Fingers entwined beneath the blanket now. Theon shifts on the loveseat, clears his throat.

“Want me to tell you something?”

Bran nods, feels the softness of Theon’s hair against his cheek. “Anything.”

“Here, now… I feel like I can be who I am.” Feels the breath Theon takes like the swell of the sea washing clean the shore. “Who I _really_ am.” Drag of the water back over the sand, leaving something bright and new and theirs. “I feel safe and — and _loved_.”

“You are,” whispers Bran. “You are loved, Theon.” Shifts a little, fingers flexing in the grip they share. “Believe that, if you believe nothing else… believe me.” 

Half-turned toward each other now. Fingers still entwined even as their free hands lift up from beneath the blanket. Bran’s resting on Theon’s nape; Theon’s palm pressed lightly to Bran’s chest. Feels his heart flicker beneath the hand resting there — as if the threads that bring about its beat are wrapped tight round Theon’s fingers. Closes his eyes for a moment. Realises they fucking _are_. Opens his eyes. Too late to snap them. Wouldn’t want to snap them even if he could. Not now. Not ever.

“I don’t want to go home,” says Theon suddenly. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Bran takes a deep breath. “You don’t have to.”

*

**Jon**

“You have to — ”

“ _Jon_.”

“ — be _quiet_ , Sans. Please!”

Lisps the last word as he fails to dodge the hand Sansa flails back toward his face. _Pleath_. Salt of blood as the cut breaks open on his lip again; but he doesn’t mind — not right now.

“Oh my God, this is good.” Whip-lash of her hair against his face. Still a little damp from the rain; somehow feels like a flush of fire singeing up his skin. “This is _so_ good.” Hearty moan. “Why is this so fucking _good_?”

Grits his teeth. “Sansa — ”

“Oh _God_. What the fuck?” Bows down on her elbows, juts her arse up and out in a way that makes him want to fucking expire and die and reanimate and do it all again. “What the — ”

“Shut _up_.” Considers his options. Pulls out. Spins her onto her back. “Come here.”

Doesn’t work. “Mm, Jon.” Flopped on her back, thighs spread wide, tongue tangled up with his own — _still_ making enough noise to bring the roof down. “Mm, _Jon_.”

“ _Sansa_ , you’re going to wake up the whole fucking house!” Slides back into her, thinks (again) that he may’ve found actual heaven (again) as he sets a rhythm that makes her shimmy into the bed then surge up against his body. “Just try and be — ”

“Oh _fuck_ my fucking _life_ ,” moans Sansa. Loudly. “Don’t stop.” Kicks her heels into his back for good measure; grips round his cock till he sees black-blue stars and bites a groan into her neck. “Don’t you _dare_ stop.”

“Your dad is going to _kill_ me.” Finds himself thinking about Ned’s (actual) naked arse for half a heartbeat; anything to distract himself from the way Sansa is fluttering like some silky molten clamp round his cock, anything to stave off the High Red Alert threat speeding along his spine that Special Agent Climax is explosively imminently rocking up to report for duty. “Not _yet_. Fuck off. Fuck off. _Fuck_ — ”

“Shut up,” moans Sansa. “Come _here_.”

“Sansa,” groans Jon half in panic, half in ecstasy. “ _Sansa_ , I’m going to — ”

“Don’t you _dare_.” Liquid iron clamping down hard now; her hips jagging back into the mattress as she wraps a hand round the bun at his nape and pulls on it. “Don’t you fucking dare, Jonathan Snow — I _mean_ it!”

“You feel too good,” grits the words out. Butts his forehead against hers, claws a kiss at her lips, screws his eyes half-shut and groans into her mouth. “You feel so fucking _good_.” Groan ebbing out to a whimper as she bites down on his bottom lip — _hard_. “Ow! _Sansa_ , that fucking — do it again. Please.”

“Like that?” Teeth nipping at his lip, nails streaking down his side. “You like that?” Fingers pulling gently at his hair. Rears back to gaze down at her through heady, half-closed eyes. “Mm, did you like that?” Nodding at her like a fucking puppet having its strings pulled: all jerky, manic, bobbing head and haphazard limbs. Doesn’t care. Keeps nodding. Rolls his head in her grip as she surges up to pull at his lip with her teeth again. “More of that — _if_ you put a bit of fucking effort in.”

“ _Sansa_ — mm, _fuck_.” Her fingers slipping down the ripples of his belly, the chiselled line of his hipbone, circling his cock, thumb pressing hard to the underside till the frenzied beat of blood fades a little bit behind his eyes. Holds him patiently. “That’s — that’s — ”

Lifts an eyebrow at him. “Better?”

“Better.” He nods earnestly, fills his lungs, then lets out a long sigh. “Much better.” Feels his face mirror the muscle-flicker of a moan painting her own as she guides him back inside; breath hissing through his teeth. “Mm, _that’s_ better.” Closes his eyes as Special Agent Climax drums impatient fingertips into the polished sheen of a leather briefcase; manages to stave him off — _Ned’s naked arse, Ned’s naked arse, Ned’s naked arse, Ned’s naked_ — for the moment. “Sorry about that. This just feels — _you_ just feel _so_ — ”

“You do, too.” Sansa wraps her legs round him, grazes her teeth along his jawline. “Now shut up and come here.”

*

**Theon**

“I don’t have to,” he repeats softly. “What do you mean?”

Heartbeat in his ears, incessant as someone drumming a rhythm against a tabletop, a battered old briefcase, the hollow of a chest. His hand resting on the soft wool of Bran’s sweater; Bran’s fingertips a swell of shadow-shapes on his nape. Feels the fall of them: feather-strokes against rain-damp skin. Makes him shiver. Just a little.

“Everything you ever did,” murmurs Bran. “Tonight, yesterday, this year and the last, all the years we’ve known each other… it led you here.” Fingertips trailing from his nape to the hollow of his throat, the dip of his chest. “Home.” Palm pressing firmly down, calming the beat bounding blood in his ears. “With me.”

Gaze at each other. Feels the same dip and glide of feeling he has felt — _buried_ — all these years. Remembers it all in this moment. Every kickabout in the streets when they were kids. Every plaster on a busted knee. Every tree they ever climbed together. The fights they had as teenagers. The cool disdain Bran turned on him when he came back from uni thinking he knew all the ways of the world — and how to outsmart each and every one. Every pint of water held by a patient hand as he hovered over a toilet-bowl. Every touch and look and smile. Every desperate _alright, mate_ and drunken fumble with girls who deserved better than to be a distraction, a casual denial. Everything. _Everything_.

“Bran… I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

“My dad. What he’ll say… what he’ll _do_.”

Fingers twining together where they rest atop sweaters and shirts and steady heartbeats. A mirrored pull — heads leant close, breath twisting up as one to drift away with the rain. Share the same exhale as their brows press softly together.

“You’re okay,” whispers Bran. “You’re okay, Theon.”

Sounds like a promise. Carries the scent of one, too. Something deep, dark. Woodland soil. Pine-needles. Spice of woodsmoke. Craft ale. Light in those eyes fixed so solidly on his own. Brows shifting together as he nods. Slowly. Breathes it in. Closes his eyes. Listens to the rhythms of the night: pitter-patter of rain, soothing words lifting soft from Bran’s throat to wash the hurt of years away.

Heavy water all around him, those words. Weight of them. Warmth of them. Floats on the tides they make. Floats: buoyant on his back, cushioned, calm, sheltered, _safe_ — Bran’s voice a lighthouse on the shore, a jewel of a flare guiding him gently home.

*

**Robb**

“ _Home_ , Margie,” says Robb patiently. “The cuffs are at — Margaery, _no_ — what if it leaves marks on your lovely little — ” Throws up his hands. “Okay! _Okay_. We’ll use the belt.” Extends a palm toward her. “Give it here, then, princess.”

As if he’s promised to book that round-the-world cruise she keeps hinting at going on, the way her face lights up. Springs up from her knees, dragging the belt from the denim-loops of his jeans as she goes. Heels of her hands immediately skinning said jeans down over his hips as she sways on her feet. Tilts his head to the side — belt heavy in his hand — as he considers where to go from here.

Used to taking control of her in the bedroom, sure. In the bathroom, too. The kitchen. The hallway of her immaculate flat in West Kensington. That bench half-hidden by hedges in a popular greenspace in central. His office definitely (not) outside of hours. The car. Closets and storerooms and the disabled toilet at the _Albion_. She likes it when he takes control. Makes her get on her knees, leave criss-cross marks from the tiles on the bone-blunt tops of them as she takes her time working his cock. Goes wild when he jags her hair round his fist or thumbs her clit beneath the table in a crowded restaurant till she’s moaning into a napkin and begging for him to fuck her on the Tube-ride home.

Never begged for the belt before, though. Never blinked up at him like that: all wide, brown eyes and soft, parted lips tracing the seam of his jeans till he gave in. Holding her wrists out even now, eager as he’s ever known her in all the time she has been his (not so) secret lady love. Wraps the leather round her slim little wrists, tightens it carefully. Slides his fingers into the waistband of her flowy skirt, skates them round till he finds the clasp at the back, unsnaps it.

“Made a show of yourself earlier, didn’t you?” Keeps his voice as she likes it: low, soft, silky as the skirt slipping free from her waist. “Kissing me like that in front of everyone.” Clicks his tongue against his teeth, runs his fingertips the line of her jaw; fights a smile as she arches into his touch. “Do you think that was a good way to behave, princess?”

Shakes her head, tongue at the corner of her lips. “Mm-mm.”

“Use your words.”

Rolls her lip between her teeth, tongue darting out to wet it. “It wasn’t a good way to behave.” Arch of her brow, fire-burst in her eyes. “It was very, very _bad_.” Shimmer of soft brown curls as she tosses her head. “Just like me.”

“Margie,” whispers Robb. “Fuck, I love you.”

Breaks from his role for half a heartbeat. Surges forward to kiss her, suck in the scent of her, the feel, the taste. Fingers running up from her waist to cradle her throat. Thumb beneath her chin as they press together, her bound hands palming at his boxers. Squeezes her throat gently; groans as she gives a soft, sweet moan.

“I love you, too.” Draws back after a moment, all trace of innocence gone from those wide, brown eyes; they smirk at each other now. Wickedly. She tilts her head, gazes at him as she wriggles her wrists, quirks a brow in mock-surprise as the belt unravels. “I don’t think you tied it right, daddy.”

He steps forward, heart a mile-a-minute as they slot back into their roles. “Showing off earlier — and now you’re undermining me.” Curls his lip. “Mocking me.” Bends down to pick the belt up from the floor, flexes it against his palm. “You’re a bad girl, princess… a bad, _bad_ girl.” Jerks his head, tries to fight the smile from his face, his voice. “Get on the bed. Now.”

Mm, she is many things. _His_ Margaery. His lovely, sweet, soft, slow-poured, purring rose-petal (not so) secret sex-kitten lady love minx. He loves every side of her. Every bit of her, every bone and beat of blood and billow of breath — every glorious inch of her backside glowing alive as rain in the moonlight as she crawls onto the bed. Swallows the lump in his throat, the grateful tears, the pretty declarations; slides up behind her, belt in hand.

*

**Sansa**

“Oh, oh! _Ooooh_ _._ ”

Fucking _feels_ his smile. “ _Now_ who’s the grumpy owl?”

“You rather I just sit here silently?”

His shoulders twitch into the backs of her knees as he shrugs. “I don’t mind — long as you stay sitting there.”

“ _Jon_.” Doesn’t recognise the husk of her own voice as she pulls back a little, looks down to meet his damp-lipped smirk. “You pervert.”

Grabs a hold of her hips, yanks her back to his face. “Mm.” Mere _rumble_ of his voice making her clench and flutter and whimper till he rewards her with a soft, slow suck on her clit. Criss-crossed eyes and suddenly the room is bathed in heavenly light. “Say that again.”

“Pervert,” whispers it, hips roving and rolling till she finds a rhythm to match the absolutely exquisite pace set by that absolutely angelic pretty pink tongue. “Grumpy owl-eyed _pervert_.” Stutters up and then slams back down, leans into the hands he’s gripping her arse with as he kisses and sucks and laps and licks _and_ _Jesus Lord preserve_ — “Jon! Jon. Fuck! _Jon_ , I’m going to — ”

“Come, then, baby.” One arm wrapping round her hips, anchoring her to his face, his mouth, his absolutely carved-by-the-angels-belongs-in-the-fucking- _heavens_ perfect tongue. “Come for me, Sansa.”

“Oh, oh! _Ooooh_ _._ ”

*

**Ned**

“Cat? Cat — ”

Huff from her side of the bed. “Be _quiet_ , Ned.”

Hunkers down into his pillow; but his ears stay pricked. “Must be a hell of a storm out there,” he says conversationally. “I’ve never heard the owls sound so — so _agitated_.” Frowns up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Might be foxes, I suppose.” Taps his wife’s shoulder. “Is it breeding season? Remind me to check the hedges for dens in the — ”

“Be _quiet_ , Ned.”

Pats her shoulder. “Sorry, love.”

Curls himself round her, breathes in the soft flowery scent of her cherry-red hair. Closes his eyes. Tries to ignore the sounds of the storm outside, the tug at his heartstrings for all and any animals in (real or imagined) distress. Shivers at the thought, tucks in closer to Cat’s warm back.

“Poor bloody owls,” he mumbles, halfway to sleep. “Keep an eye on them, old gods, eh?”

Tea-kettle hiss. “ _Ned_.”

“Already asleep.” Nuzzles into her neck. “Night, love.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> I don’t even know what to say about that mess of moans and mild kinks! I had fun writing this chapter — toned down the comedy (maybe probably who knows?) to sprinkle a dash of seriousness amongst all the smutty sexy sex. Hope whoever is reading this liked it, too. Feel free to let me know! **1** chapter left to go — till then, stay well, honeys! Please. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** didn't realise how gloomily-lit that little picset is till I uploaded it... what can I say — I tried. I failed. I am lazy and will leave it ever gloomy.


	6. Full English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Well fuck _me_ the world’s changed just a bit since I first started this fic, eh?! Here we go: something soft and sweet and silly and (hopefully!) slightly funny to (maybe!) help take our minds off all of _the things_ which are going on at the moment… enjoy, loves! 🍳

**Sansa**

“I think you’ve put my hip out.”

Hazy rumble from beside her in the bed. “Your _what_ out?” Hand sliding up her side beneath the covers, pinching said hip gently. “Sorry — did I fuck a _ninety_ year old last night?”

“ _Did_ you?” Tries to keep the smile from her voice. “That’s disgusting, Jon.”

“Ageism,” rumbles it into her neck. “That’s what that is, Sans.”

Extends her throat, tilts into the pillows: opens up for him. “You think?”

“Mm-hmm.” Peppery kisses along her collarbone as she rolls onto her back. “I definitely think it.” Lips slipping down, down — _down_. “Definitely, definitely — _mmm_.”

Fingers knotted into ink-dark curls. “Keep moving that mouth.” Hazily wondering if her voice has always sounded like a demon growling out from its little lava-pit deep in hell. “You just keep _moving_ it.” Teeth on her thighs; she’s spread them before the sting of his first bite has even sunk in. “Like that — _oh_ fuck!” Rocks up, mewls as he pins her hips and flattens her to the bed. “Just. Like. _That_ — Jon!”

Sound that is frankly _obscene_ — the sloppiest suck and _pull_ and — _fuck fuck fuck_ — she’s seeing literal stars already and how the fuck does he _do_ that? It really _isn’t_ fair for one man out of millions to have a tongue like that. Magic. Fairy dust and angels singing. Fumbling fucking idiot that can’t even fucking _wink_ without looking like a grumpy owl and yet — _fuuuuuuck_ — and _yet_ he can work her like no-one else and for the life of her she just can’t understand it and now she’s almost, almost, _almost_ —

“Filthy girl,” he growls into her as she pants his name. “Absolutely filthy.”

Digs her nails into his scalp as she arches up off the bed like she’s back in school playing crab fucking football. Ache in every bit of her but it’s a good ache: bursting out from beneath her skin till she’s dewy-pink, glowing. Looks down at him and _God_ he’s pretty. He is so fucking pretty.

Moans as she rasps a thumb across his brow. “You love it.”

“Aye,” he whispers: words kisses, kisses words. “Mm, I do.” 

*

**Arya**

Prone in a puddle of sunlight, his arms akimbo. Chin drooping on his chest. Legs kicked out like an afterthought. Warrior not yet laid to rest after battle. Arya feels a swell of love in her heart, skates a fingertip across the soft plush warmth of his chest.

“Good morning, little man.” Keeps her voice soft, low — the sweet little velvet tone she uses for one man and one man only. “I’m so sorry he threw you, Syrio. Please forgive me.”

The sunbear looks up at her from the carpet with glazed, honey-coloured eyes. Stitched snarl almost like a smile in the sunlight. Slips her fingers under his akimbo arms, cradles him in her hands.

Fierce little bear. Has seen so much. Her bawling as a baby. Moving houses. Devastation over GCSE results. Elation at landing her first job. Has _survived_ so much. Five dogs with an inclination toward using him as a play-thing. Haphazard stitch-repair-jobs. Washing machines. Being pegged to the washing-line by an ear more times than she can count.

Her massive man-baby boyfriend — survived him now, too.

Bear and girl both shooting daggers over their shoulders now as Gendry snores loudly in the bed behind them, oblivious to the scene unfolding in all its sanctity right in front of him. Looks back to Syrio. Smiles.

“He _did_ apologise,” she reasons. “Threw you — yes. I _know_. But he did say sorry.” Touches the little button nose. “Promise I won’t let him throw you again. Okay? Good.”

Crawls along the carpet back up into bed. Cold sheets, cold air — warm Gendry. Warm, naked, lovely, _warm_ Gendry. All ripple-shod with muscle. Mm. Hollow of his throat that tastes like… like _him_. Puts her mouth to it now, then trips her lips up to his ear.

“Wakey, wakey, dickhead.” Business-as-usual voice; Syrio sitting smugly on Gendry’s chest to hear it. “Gendry — oi, Geeeendry.”

Like a new-born seeing light for the first time, the way his face screws up. “Don’t want to.” Gravelly grumbly growl deep in his throat. “Tired. Don’t _want_ to wake up.”

“Even with a Ned’s full English on the cards?” Slides a leg across his hips; squeals as he jags her roughly onto his lap with those massive ham-hands holding firm to her thighs. “Mm, thought that might do the trick.”

Baby-blues blinking up at her. “Morning, beautiful.” Pulls her toward him, then pauses when he sees what is sitting on his chest. “Hello, Syrio.” Tilts his head back up at her. “Sorry I threw him — even if he _was_ distracting me… does he forgive me?”

“Yes, babe,” she murmurs, biting her cheek to keep from laughing at the sincerity of those massive man-baby-blues. “Mm, you’re forgiven.”

*

**Jon**

Sweatpants and an old T-shirt of Robb’s — standard attire for a Sunday spent at the Stark residence. His second home. Age-old routine as comfortable to be in as his own skin.

But there’s little threads of newness now. Mm, lovely little threads: Sansa in a towel, red hair damp from the shower, flush of pink in her cheeks put there by his efforts between her —

“Earlier,” she’s saying as she squeezes water from the ends of her hair. “Earlier, that thing you — ”

“That thing I did?” he offers, feeling quiet pride swell in his belly. “What thing? There were _many_ things. Many wonderful, amazing, magical — ”

“ — said, Jon. That thing you _said_.”

Now he’s panicking. What the fuck did he say? He didn’t say _Special Agent Climax_ out loud, did he? For the love of _God_ , he didn’t say that, did he? Please, no. Must be something else. A love declaration? A confession? That is was _him_ who broke her most treasured, beloved dollhouse when they were kids? He tried to fix it. He really fucking tried. But it was made of wood and he didn’t have wood-glue — well, _Ned_ didn’t have wood-glue, only varnish in the shed and varnish can only do so much —

“It _was_ Robb, you know,” blurts it out before he’s quite caught up with himself. “Robb _did_ break it. I don’t know what I said last night, but it was definitely Robb.” Nods at her. “Absolutely wasn’t me.”

Little line between her brows. “That’s not — I meant did you really forget who Jesus was?”

“What?”

“Not John!” cries Sansa in a sing-song imitation. “JESUS!”

“Oh,” says Jon. “Oh — _that_.” Slumps a little into the mattress, looks up at her through his lashes. “Will you laugh if I say yes?”

Shakes her head sweetly. “No.”

“Yes.”

Laughs at him. Loudly.

“You said you wouldn’t — oh, you’re in for it now, Sansa Stark!”

Pinned her to the bed before she can blink. Towel folded back. He pulls it away as she scrabbles to secure it back under her armpits. Laughing. Both of them. Fingers and fumbles and he doesn’t even know how or when but all of a sudden he’s aware of being back inside her. Spread thighs and the warm cradle between them and he never wants to leave it. SA Climax a faraway thought — thank _fuck_ — because all he can think and feel and see is Sansa.

“Fuck,” he whispers into her mouth. “ _Fuck_ , Sans.”

Wraps a fist into his hair, drags his head where she wants it. “Can I ask you a question?”

_Yes_ , he thinks as he groans against her breasts. _Yes. I will. I do. When? A June wedding? Where? What will our_ —

“Jon,” she murmurs all warm and smoky and soft. “Did you break my dollhouse?”

Freezes, tongue halfway through tripping its circle round her nipple. “I — I… no?”

“Bastard — oh, you _bastard_.”

But she’s laughing. Loudly. And it feels like home. Her. This. Comfortable to be in as his own skin. Loves her. God, he fucking loves this fire-haired woman of his. Loves her, loves her. _Loves_ her. Realises he always has. Mm, always will. 

*

**Robb**

“What are they?”

Looks up from his cup to see his little brother pointing at the marks on Margaery’s (lovely little) wrists. Swallows the tea. Swears as it burns a fiery path straight down his gullet. Everyone looks at him as the curses ring out, cup clatters down on the tabletop. But his (not so) secret lady love is the image of piety and kindness.

“From my bracelets,” she says softly as Rickon pokes at a belt-bruise gently. “Sometimes I fasten them a little _too_ tightly.”

Winces. Definitely slid that leather tight as it could go once he’d spanked her with the belt a few times. Bound up her (lovely little) wrists behind her back. Pushed her onto her belly and yanked her arse up in the air. Fucked her just as she likes it: hard, rough, fast — sweeping slow and soft toward the end. Feel of her tightening round his cock, some velvet silky flutter that turns his brain to a white-hot haze. Kisses all down her rose-petal neck —

_Stop_ , he tells himself. _Stop it now, Robb Stark_ — _before you have to hide a hard-on underneath the fucking table_.

“Do they hurt?”

Margaery looks from Robb to Rickon, steely stare softening to a sweet smile. “Just a bit.” Raises a brow conspiratorially as he smiles back. “But I like my bracelets enough to stand a little pain.” Drifts an easy gaze round the table. “More tea?”

Bustles up in a waft of rosewater that makes his tongue tingle, throat ache. But Mum is looking at him rather steadily. Sapphire eyes burning up any and all lingering threads of smoke burning in his blood. Smiles at her in a (failed) attempt to appear innocent.

“Was there a storm last night?”

Dad hums from where he stands at the stove. “What’s that, lad?”

“A _storm_ ,” repeats Rickon, tongue tangling at the gap in his teeth. “I heard noises. _Lots_ of _weird_ noises.”

Dad clicks his fingers to the rhythm of the radio. “I said that!” Triumphant, oblivious: the tone of his voice at complete odds with the horror in Mum’s eyes — Robb’s, too. “Didn’t I _say_ that, Cat? Storm. Breeding season… I don’t know what it was, my lad, but the _owls_ were just absolutely going for — ”

“Be _quiet_ , Ned.” Tea-kettle hiss as Mum slaps her cup onto the table. “Eat your toast, Rickon.”

“ — it,” finishes Dad. “Foxes, too. Want to check the hedges for dens with me later?” Waves his spatula in acknowledgement of Rickon’s howl of assent. “Good lad. We’ll do it after breakfast.” Waves it again. “Everyone hungry? I hope so.” Little shimmy in his wolf-patterned apron. “Ned’s full English coming to a kitchen table near you very, very so— ow! Get back in the pan, ye old spit of grease! Fucker. Ow! You little _fuck_ — ”

“ _Ned_ ,” hisses Mum. “Language!”

Sucks at his scalded thumb. “Sorry, love.”

Robb can only smile, sip his tea — thank the _old gods of the fucking forest and clouds a-bloody-bove_ that this is home. Mum. Dad. Brothers. Sisters. Jon. Margie. Full English. Sore heads and sunlit smiles. Home. All of it. Always.

*

**Sansa**

Halfway to the finish line. Just an egg or two to be cleared before it’s empty plates all around. Sansa toys with her fork, starts the countdown in her head.

_Three, two, one_ …

“Right,” announces Dad happily right on zero. “It’s that time on a Sunday. Anyone got anything to air? Troubles? Triumphs?” Leans back in his chair, mug of tea resting against his belly. “Come on! Home truths — time to air them, time to _share_ them.”

Groaning in unison now: children, wife, even the dogs give a sigh from their scrap-hunting positions on the tiles.

“Every week,” sighs Arya.

“Every _fucking_ week,” grumbles Robb.

“Language!” says Mum. “You know this means a lot to your dad.”

“I haven’t got anything to air or — or _share_ ,” declares Gendry.

Jon snorts. “You never do, Gendry.”

“Leave him alone!” snaps Arya. “ _Fine_ — I’ll go first.” Flicks her flinty gaze round the table, settles on the head of it. “Time for some home truths, eh?” Raises a dark brow. “Why are you still wearing Mum’s kimono?”

Dad splutters into his tea. “Hmm — what?”

“You heard me,” says Arya.

“The kimono, Dad — ”

“ — why are _still_ you wearing it?”

He looks from Arya to Bran to Sansa and back again. “What’s wrong with wearing a kimono?” Spreads his hands, nearly spills his tea, fights to get a grip back on the cup. “It’s _comfortable_ , Arya.” Dashes a palm against the damp spot left on the silk by his runaway tea. “I like it. Smells like Mum’s perfume.”

“ _Ned_ ,” hisses it — but her voice is a little softer now: all simpering sweetness.

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Gross.” 

“Gross!” parrots Rickon.

“Rickon!” scolds Mum.

“Mum — ”

“Robb?”

“Donkey!”

“Very funny, Bran — Rickon, eat your _toast_.”

Sansa laughs with the rest of them, then taps her nails against her cup. “I’ve got something to share.” Looks at them all: her heart right there arranged artlessly around a chaotic breakfast table. “Family night. Full English. Home truths. Fights and a mess in the lounge of monumental proportions… I wouldn’t swap it for the world.” Lifts her tea up. “I love you all — even if you _did_ fuck my best friend, Robb Stark.”

“Only fair now you’re fucking _my_ best friend, Sans.”

“Fuck!” shrills Rickon. “F-uu-ck-ing!”

Mum sighs into her hands. “Please! Will you all just _mind your language_ , for fuck’s — oh!” Claps a hand to her mouth. “Tits. Arse. _Shit_.”

“Wahey!” says Ned as a chorus of shouts and swears and stifled laughter erupts round the table. “Pound in the swear jar please, darling wife.”

“Mummy said a bad word!”

“Mummy _did_ say a bad word, my lad!”

“Bad Mummy!”

“ _Language_ , Mum!”

“Language, Catelyn!” they all parrot in unison.

Mum scrapes up from the table, tries to paint fury onto features already trembling in a smile broad as the sun at the window. Leans low, whispering now —

“Fuck the lot of you.”

*

**Bran**

Laughter from Mum’s little outburst lasts all day. Drifts to fill the house like the sound of the rain last night. Pitter-patter at the windows, swelling through doorways, brushing at the ceilings. But it’s warmer than winter rainfall has any right to be. Bran’s grateful for that. Grateful for everything. Every little bit of laughter. Every little thread of this weekend that has rewoven all the fibres of his heart. Set it right. Made it full.

They leave in pairs.

Gendry and Arya hand-in-hand to get some milk from the corner shop. Doc Martens and ripped jeans; tattoos on an impossibly-muscled arm tucked round a narrow waist. Hip to hip, swaying down the street.

Margaery kisses Mum on the cheek. Dad, too. Promises to pass on his well-wishes to her grandmother. Takes Robb by the arm. Insists they don’t need a cab. Sunny day after all that rain — nice little walk to West Kensington. Might pick up dinner on the way. Leave happily. All sweet scents. All soft, easy smiles.

Jon and Sansa. They’re last to go. Sansa’s been sat on the sofa with Theon all afternoon, fingers all wrapped up together, talking in low voices. Jon polite and intent as he is cajoled into checking the hedges for fox-dens with Dad and Rickon. Poking at the underbrush, sending a silent pleading look through the window that no-one _quite_ catches in time.

“Bran?” says a soft voice. “Branny?”

Looks away from the window, smiles up at Sansa. “Yes, sis?”

“Whatever happens… look after him.” Swoops down to wrap him up in a hug that reminds him of the apple tree they used to climb together in their old garden: warm and firm and cradling — _safe_. “Look after him… promise?”

Grips her a little tighter. “I will.”

Promises it with words, with looks. His sister nods at him, kisses his cheek — takes Jon’s arm and heads off into the dusky glow of the city.

Looks across to Theon dozing off on the sofa. Realises they’re the only pair left. Dad in the garden. Mum and Rickon peeling potatoes to print shapes on paper or finger-painting or fuck knows whatever else upstairs. Just him in the lounge. Him and Theon.

Slides across to the other sofa.

Won’t move too fast. Not for a long time. This is new and different — but it feels right. Just this. Just them right now. Leaning together on the sofa. Gentle buzz of a soap-opera in the background. Dad kicking mud off his boots out on the garden steps, muttering about wolves beneath his breath. Tawny hair. Seasalt. Cigarette smoke. Spice of cologne.

Breathes it in.

Closes his eyes.

Drifts awake sometime later. Dusk turned to dark at the windows. Quiet house. Dogs curled up in a heap on the carpet. Curtains half-drawn; Dad creeping like some arch-villain from a spy thriller to complete the task of closing them. Freezes comically as he hears Bran shift on the sofa. Looks guilty over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Bran works his jaw in a yawn. “It’s okay.”

“Night, son.”

“Night, Dad.”

Hand on his shoulder stirs him again. “Bran?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Theon can stay here as long as he needs.” Squeezes his shoulder gently. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Bran lifts a hand. “Dad?”

Fingers finding grip on each other. “Yes, son?”

“Thank you.”

Threads and stitches, everything close-knit and pulling closer still. Dad squeezes his hand, then ruffles his ruddy hair as he used to do when Bran was young. A baby. His baby. Then he turns, grey eyes all damp with something like happiness — and pads off up the stairs.

Quiet.

Breathes.

Murmur of the dogs as they stretch and slide onto their backs and stay sleeping soundly. Closes his eyes again.

Warmth.

Heart so full in his chest that it hurts — a good hurt. Theon stirs on his shoulder, fingers fluttering like a sea-wave coming into shore. Bran finds them with his own, knits them tight in a sleep-heavy hold. Won’t ever let them go.

Ever.

“I’ll look after him,” he utters to Sansa, to Theon, to the air, to the quiet, to the old gods in the clouds a-bloody-bove. “Always.” Tucks his cheek to the top of Theon’s head. “Promise.”

*

**Theon**

_Life is good. Life is fucking **good**_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Not my finest, not my funniest… but it was nice to sink back into the easiness of the flow of this fic and finally finish it. Calmed my head a little to write it which is always nice in these trying times! Hopefully you liked it, too — and thanks very much for sticking around for this one, honeys! ❤️ 


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